


Non, je ne regrette rien

by define_serenity



Series: Seblaine Sunday Challenge [11]
Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, New Year's Eve, New Years, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:11:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/define_serenity/pseuds/define_serenity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Seblaine Sunday: countdown/regrets] Several New Year’s Eves in Sebastian Smythe’s life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Non, je ne regrette rien

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Seblaine Sunday, prompt: **countdown/regrets**.
> 
> I got several amazing anon prompts on tumblr, and I tried to combine them : )

His stepmom has this thing about expressing regrets, which she encourages the entire family to participate in every New Year’s Eve. She pens down her own regrets on small pieces of paper she meticulously folds into tiny squares, then walks over to the fire place, closes her eyes, recites what’s on the paper, and throws them in the fire one at a time, her regrets burning crisp into ashes.

His sister quickly follows her mom’s example, she’s too young to have any real regrets to feel the cleansing effects of the fire, but she has this mighty will of her own and there’s no holding her back. So, every year she toddles over to her mom, whispers her regrets so no one else can hear, and throws the paper in the fire. Only to watch it burn.

His father never reads his regrets out loud, even though his stepmom peeks over his shoulder when he’s writing them down–he throws them in the fire and puts his hands in his pockets, sauntering back to his chair like nothing much has changed.

The first year he writes _I regret having to participate in this stupid tradition that doesn’t even make any sense_. He’s twelve years old and doesn’t know any better, and when the fire licks across the white paper, he feels nothing.

The year after he writes down something similar, though he’s gotten more eloquent in his phrasing, and smiles as the paper burns. He always recites his regrets. Just to get under his stepmom’s skin.

When he’s fourteen he’s in France with his mom, but between her lavish parties and attending her guests there isn’t much time for him, so he finds himself digging through her desk for paper. He writes down _I regret all the years I spent lying to everyone about who I really am,_ and _I regret not telling Stephen I liked him before kissing him_ , and _I regret losing my virginity to someone who didn’t mean anything to me_. He’s not usually one for overt sentiment, but they’re his words and no one will ever see them–and as he watches them burn, never spoken out loud, he admits there’s something to it. The fire eats at his lack of self worth and he decides there and then that no boy, whether he likes him or not, will capture his heart so easily again.

 

 

**2011**

His junior year he expresses no regrets–his stepmom sniffles and straightens her shoulders, clearly disapproving of his attitude, while a smile curls around his mouth. His sister Belle, passing through a rebellious phase, follows his fine example when she curls up on his lap and tips her Furby upside down, no regrets to speak of.

Of course he has his share of regrets. He regrets being forced to move to the middle-of-fucking-nowhere-Ohio with one barely decent gay bar in a 100-mile radius. He regrets not fighting his father harder and moving to France again, but his mother remarried too, and she preferred not having him around during the honeymoon stage of her second marriage.

Then again, Dalton Academy offered a fresh batch of preppies to corrupt or seduce, perhaps even both, and he was never one to pass up an opportunity once it was handed to him on a silver platter. His first conquest that school year was a cute freshman who made all the right noises and moaned his name reverently, who came back for seconds and thirds before realizing he’d long since moved on with another boy.

He’d joined the Warblers because for some upside down reason Dalton’s glee club was actually considered popular, and he couldn’t deny he liked the attention. He quickly climbed the social ranks and became captain, a position the Warblers were eager to see filled after they lost their previous captain, some guy named Blaine Anderson, to the mystifying allure of McKinley High.

Trent and Nick talked about Blaine Anderson as if he’d ruled the entire school, but it took meeting Blaine to understand what all the fuss was about. Blaine Anderson was sex in all the right places, from the dark brows over hazel eyes to his full lips, all the way down to the fine rounded ass he wasn’t afraid to show off.

They’d been talking for a few months now, on Facebook or Skype or through text message, and he had absolutely no regrets about trying to become Blaine’s friend as a means to get in his pants. There was the sticky matter of Blaine having a boyfriend, but Kurt Hummel wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.

So, no, he didn’t have any real regrets. (Except, he might regret buying his sister a Furby for Christmas. It was meant as a joke at the time, but the fucking thing has been driving him crazy beyond belief.)

Half an hour after the clock strikes twelve he receives a text from Blaine.

_Happy New Year, Sebastian. It’s going to be great, I can feel it :) x_

He smiles down at the text and thinks, yes, 2012 will be one hell of a year.

 

 

**2012**

One year later he’s not the boy he used to be, the last 365 days have proved his undoing and his remaking and he’s carried his regrets with him in some locked away part of his heart ever since that red dyed slushie hit Blaine in the eyes. He can’t say it was a wake up call, he continued his delinquent streak with bullying and blackmail, but somewhere along the way a growing sense of misdirection had steered him clear of those things.

He’d apologized and accepted Blaine’s radio silence as his punishment, and started his laundry list of regrets after waking up from a hangover somewhere mid August. If it’d been up to him it would’ve ended there, his final regret that year would’ve been not apologizing to Blaine sooner, or not visiting him in the hospital, or not fessing up to the whole thing when he had the chance. He still has the tape, his confession recorded magnetically across two small reels (he wore it down that same August day, replaying it over and over again, until his voice warped into an other’s.)

His guilt slowly ate away at him until there was little more left than to face his mistakes and make the solemn vow never to return to his old ways. He succeeded, for the most part; he hadn’t counted on Hunter Clarington to have an evil streak that more than rivaled his own. Hunter got to him the same way he got to the rest of the Warblers, plied him with promises of luring Blaine back to Dalton, of completing the Warblers again after two years, because he’d done nothing to stop him.

So he can’t for the life of him figure out how Blaine Anderson ended up at his house that 31st of December.

The first tentative text came right after Christmas, a simple _Merry Christmas, Sebastian_ which had left him reeling for hours–it hadn’t been a mistake, his name was right there at the end of Blaine’s text like a challenge, and it’d taken him so long, too long, to type out his reply.

_Merry Christmas, killer. I hope you had a good one._

A few more texts follow, and then a phone call, explaining that Blaine’s Christmas wasn’t all he’d hoped it would be–apparently he and Kurt were supposed to have a mature heart-to-heart about their relationship. He’s not sure why this warrants a conversation with him, but at least they’re talking again, and he accepts Blaine talking about Kurt as his penance.

He invites Blaine over for New Year’s Eve somewhere between reminiscing over the Warblers and Kurt’s penchant for cutting Blaine off mid-sentence. Something he guesses he needs to stop doing too.

Blaine brings a bottle of wine for his parents, and a pair of heart earrings for Belle, which she takes so eagerly she forgets to thank him. When his stepmom scolds her for it she blushes deep and twists her arms around one of his legs, gazing at Blaine with stars in her eyes.

“Are you my brother’s boyfriend?” the six-year old asks, the question rippling through the entire room. His stepmom chokes on her sip of eggnog and shocks his father from his usual disinterest, while his heart skips a beat or two.

Blaine in the mean time simply smiles, warm and hearty, and pushes Belle’s curls from her eyes. “Sebastian and I are just friends,” he says, winking at his sister, making her bury her face in his side, embarrassed for the first time ever in her short life.

He’s not sure how or why he deserved it, but he could stand to be Blaine Anderson’s friend.

“Why isn’t Blaine your boyfriend, S’Bastian?” Belle asks him later, standing in his doorway with her teddy bear dragging behind her on the floor, one tiny fist rubbing at her eyes. She’s meant to be sound asleep already, it’s well past midnight and his stepmom would have an aneurysm if she were to find out Belle was still up.

That’s how he ends up carrying his sister back to her room, her head lolling back and forth on his shoulder, muttering another, “Why, S’Bas’ian?”

And for the first time since that fateful August day he allows himself to think about, but the laundry list of reasons for why Blaine isn’t his boyfriend doesn’t even include his regrets.

“Because Blaine likes another boy,” he answers softly as he lowers her back into her bed, because there’s no point in pretending that Blaine didn’t write down _I regret cheating on Kurt_ earlier tonight.

Belle pouts and sucks one of her thumbs into her mouth, mumbling, “S’upid boys,” before falling asleep.

 

 

**2013**

The summer after graduation he moves to New York for college and he decides on a new start–he might not be wiser, but he’s older, and he’s gained a perspective not many boys his age do. He’s determined to make the most of it, his education, a job to pay for his expenses, and of course, frat parties.

Blaine and Kurt live somewhere in the city too, but after everything that’s happened, their shaky past and even shakier friendship, not to mention the engagement, he figures it’s best he keeps his distance.

It’s funny then (or sad, he can’t decide) that his one regret that year only becomes one long after he promised himself he wouldn’t linger on it. He could’ve told Blaine, that he and Kurt didn’t know themselves well enough, let alone each other, to commit to each other _in marriage_ , but much like his sister Blaine had a mighty will of his own, so there was no real point in trying to talk him out of it.

But come the holidays Blaine and Kurt are no longer an item, and Blaine ends up at his door again, wrecked and lost in a big city where dreams are meant to come true. He takes Blaine to see the Ball Drop on Times Square, since both of them are New York newbies, but Blaine drinks himself into a stupor, and they don’t make it to midnight.

So he walks Blaine home, manhandles him onto his bed fully dressed, pulling off his shoes.

“I regret having a boyfriend when I met you.”

It’s so soft he doubts its existence, but he finds Blaine staring at him with eyes that shine in the moonlight. Several curls have sprung free from their chemical hold and somehow Blaine seems older, though that could well be his heartbreak marking his face.

His skin breaks out in goosebumps and his stomach stirs with nausea, the kind that comes with a morbid kind of excitement–Blaine doesn’t have a boyfriend anymore and he’s waited for this moment longer than he cares to admit, longer than he ever realized.

“And it’s your fault I regretted leaving Dalton,” Blaine huffs indignantly, and shuts his eyes. For a moment or two it looks like that’s that, Blaine’s too drunk to understand what he’s saying and blurts out nonsense, but he adds a sad, “I don’t usually regret things” around which his heart aches, because he once believed the same thing.

“Everyone does, killer.”

Blaine opens his eyes. “Even Sebastian Smythe?”

“I’m no different than anyone else.”

“Then tell me,” Blaine says. “What’s your biggest regret?”

There’s a voice inside that screams at him not to spill this secret, to carry the burden along with all the regrets that trace right back to Blaine, but it’s close to midnight and maybe this is the second confession tonight that should remain stuck in 2013.

He runs his fingers down the side of Blaine’s face, Blaine oddly receptive to the touch, and the truth sears through him like a flame.

“I love you, Blaine.”

“Sebastian.” Blaine laughs, leaning up on his elbows, but the perception of what just transpired reaches through his drunken haze. He shakes his head. “No.”

He faces away from Blaine.

The bed creaks. “You don’t love me.”

“Okay,” he says, staring down at his hands. “I don’t love you.”

The clock strikes twelve, and the silence is deafening.

 

 

**2014**

College turns out to be a breeding ground for one regret after the other, but none that he feels the need to burn near the end of the year–there was that frat party he probably should have avoided or that math test he could’ve studied harder for, there was that one regrettable afternoon he spent seducing a TA who would get obnoxiously clingy in the weeks that followed, but all in all he has no reason to complain.

Nor does he lament his current situation with a boy who’s steadily weaseled his way into his life and his heart–he met Daniel a few weeks ago through a mutual friend and there was an immediate connection, one he felt with another boy long ago, at a coffee shop, in the middle of nowhere.

“Any regrets, Mr Smythe?” Daniel whispers, sliding a hand down his chest, past the waistband of his jeans, teasing a palm over his crotch.

“Shit,” he gasps. “Not doing this sooner?”

Daniel grins, that cocky one he’s sure sold him from the moment he saw it, and as they tumble backwards onto his bed he hears the countdown starting down the hallway. But he figures this is as fine a way as any to ring in the new year.

 

 

**2015**

He’s twenty by the time he feels the need to burn his regrets again. But rather than write down entire sentences about all the times he disappointed himself, he writes down three names.

 _Stephen_.

 _Blaine_.

 _Daniel_.

His heart aches fresh and old, new regrets stacking on top of ancient ones because unlike his stepmom he’s never kid himself: they never leave, fire can’t destroy them because the physical representations of them are mere shadows of his own failures.

 _Too weak_.

 _Too selfish_.

 _Too blind_. 

Three boys he failed because he didn’t understand what he felt when they were right there in front of him, and he didn’t have the right vocabulary to convey a feeling only his heart knew how to translate.

“Sebastien?” comes his mother’s voice, who has managed to pull herself away from her guests for a few minutes. “Qu’est qui ce passe?”

His mother reads him better than anyone; their relationship has improved over the years, his stepfather has calmed her down and he matured in incrementally painful ways.

“Nothing,” he lies, and watches his regret burn into ashes. “Just–getting rid of something.”

His mother draws a hand through his hair, the way she did when he was a little boy. “I’m sorry about Daniel.”

“That’s okay,” another lie, because of all the names burned into the skin over his heart Daniel has dug deepest. “It happens.”

His mother stays with him until the countdown, when she pulls him inside the living room by the hand, joining the other party guests, and when the fireworks starts she kisses his forehead, smoothing over it with her finger to get rid of the lipstick stain, and smiles, “Bonne année, mon cher.”

“Happy New Year, mom.”

 

 

**2016**

unknown, 12.54: _Are you in Paris for the holidays by any chance? x Blaine_

He receives the text right after landing at Charles De Gaulle airport and his mouth goes dry; he blinks at his screen as if somehow it’ll make the hallucination disappear, but he recognizes the number too. He can’t decide what to say, if he wants to see Blaine or prefers that chapter of his life to remain closed, so in the end his fingers type out an awkward _Yes?_ in return.

unknown, 13:10: _Cool. So am I. Maybe we could meet up?_

It’s the start of the most surreal holiday season he has ever experienced. The years have turned Blaine into a dauntless and more self-assured version of the boy he once knew, breezing through NYADA, working as a production assistant to make some money, sharing a flat with his best friend Sam. This new sense of independence had driven him to travel on his own–last year he’d spent his holidays in London, this year it was Paris’ turn.

At Christmas they go out to dinner together, reminisce over old times without any mention of the unfortunate events that had driven them apart, brought them back together, and made them disappear out of each other’s lives for nearly two years. Blaine catches him up on his life and he does the same, they see all his favorite sights and go ice-skating, and warm their hands on mugs of hot chocolate.

Come New Year’s Eve they make their way to the Eiffel Tower, where half of Paris seems to be gathered for the fireworks–it’s cliché as hell, but it’s a sight worth seeing if you’re visiting Paris for the first time. They find a small secluded patch deeper into the park, the Eiffel Tower bright and beautiful above them.

“Does your stepmom still–”

He smiles in response. “Every year.”

“And you?”

He shrugs. “If there’s something I really regret.”

“Is there?”

He looks at Blaine, the irises of his eyes alight with the shine coming down from the Eiffel Tower–last time Blaine asked him he ended up spilling a secret that pushed Blaine out of his life, but he nods all the same. Whatever happened between them was two years ago and Blaine’s the one who sought him out, a little more truth wouldn’t hurt anyone.

“I regret not keeping in touch with you,” Blaine goes first, eyes burning with sincerity. “I’ve missed this.”

“I regret telling you I loved you,” he offers in return, since that’s the real reason they lost touch, neither of them mature enough to set aside their pride and talk it through–Blaine’s regret over his reaction and his regret running much deeper than that.

Blaine frowns at him. “Why?”

He averts his eyes, Blaine’s name burnt into his skin. “Because it made you realize that you didn’t love me back.”

Silence falls despite the crowd growing hectic and impatient around them, only broken by Blaine’s tentative, “I regret–”, his lips failing to string together a sentence laced with sorrow. “I regret not being brave enough.”

It’s his turn to frown, “What for?”

“To try,” Blaine answers, and the two words cut through him like a knife–he never should have told Blaine about his feelings that night, it was too soon after his break-up with Kurt and too early in their friendship for such life-altering confessions.

“You were in a bad place.”

“But I was attracted to you. From the moment I met you.”

He swallows hard. “Was?”

The clock strikes twelve and fireworks erupt, but he’s only aware of the two hands on his face, pulling him down until his lips meet Blaine’s in a kiss. “Am,” Blaine whispers, and captures his lips again. His arms wind around Blaine’s waist and Paris explodes around them, while all he feels are Blaine’s lips, his hands, his body, right there, with him.

 

 

**2017**

“No regrets,” he whispers to Blaine’s lips, his boyfriend’s arms wrapped loose around his waist, surrounded by what seems the whole of New York on Times Square, the countdown a background litany celebrating one of the best years of his life.

“No regrets,” Blaine giggles, and they set in the New Year kissing, and kissing, and kissing.

 

 

**2018**

Blaine lies back down in his arms after he’s retrieved a fresh box of tissues from the bedroom; he caught a bad cold right after Christmas and spent most of the week curled up in bed with an entire library of sappy Christmas movies.

He didn’t want to run the risk of making Blaine sicker so they sit curled up on the couch to watch the Ball Drop on TV, even though the suggestion got a lot of protest. Blaine eventually buckled when his rant started a coughing fit that took ten minutes to subside, and his lungs burned with the effort it took to speak again.

“Any regrets this year?” he asks, and when he’s only met with silence he thinks maybe Blaine’s fallen asleep; it’s late and Blaine’s still weak, his breathing rattly from the fluid in his lungs.

But Blaine struggles up in a sitting position, swallowing a few times with difficulty. “You have to stop doing this,” he says, voice warped because he’s speaking through his nose. “You can regret a lot of things in the moment, like I regret calling Kurt at Thanksgiving, and you regret flirting with that guy at Christmas to get back at me. But it doesn’t matter where we’ve been, Sebastian. We’re here. Together.”

And maybe it’s the cough syrup that’s turned Blaine sugary sweet inside or something that’s been on his mind for a long time, but he needed to hear it to be convinced–he’s carried every single one of his regrets with him for such a long time, when all they’ve proved to be are reminders of the boy he hasn’t been for a long time.

“No more regrets,” Blaine says. “Promise?”

He nods, smiling. “Promise.”

Blaine sits back in his arms, counting off the final ten seconds of the year on his fingers. “Happy New Year.”

He kisses Blaine’s hair. “Happy anniversary.”

 

 

**2019**

Celebrating New Year’s Eve together sort of becomes their thing. It not only marks an ending, but the beginning of something new, a new year, another year, another anniversary.

 

 

**2020**

His breath turns to white mist as he expels it, but his lungs don’t take in enough air once he inhales again. There’s a small fire burning in the bowl in the center of the terrace, its flames trying to reach higher than the cold winter air allows. He’s not dressed warm enough to be outside, but the warmth inside the apartment has turned oppressive and he’d rather avoid it.

It’s only a few minutes to midnight, and there’s a meticulously folded piece of paper in his right hand, tucked between his fingers.

“I thought we promised each other we wouldn’t do that anymore,” Blaine’s voice sounds behind him, the sliding door silent as it opens and closes.

He turns around, hands in his pockets, and leans back against the railing. Blaine’s wrapped himself up in one of his favorite sweaters, warm comfy boots and a scarf, still a much more prudent planner than he ever was.

“Do you remember that night a few weeks ago,” he says, “right after I got my promotion?”

Blaine crosses his arms over his chest, a defensive technique he reads all too well. “We went out to dinner.”

“And ran into Kurt,” he adds what Blaine chooses to omit.

“Sebastian, it’s New Year’s Eve.” Blaine sighs, face coloring with barely held back annoyance. “It’s our four year anniversary. I’m not in the mood to fight.”

“Me neither,” he laughs. He’s not looking to start a fight–he wants to tell the story of his biggest regret, one he doesn’t wish to burn, doesn’t wish to forget, instead he’d rather negate it altogether, turn it into something they can rejoice about. “I had other plans that night.”

Blaine looks up at him, uncertain about the sudden change of pace. They haven’t talked for a few days now, work and stress _and life_ taking them both for a spin, and sometimes, in all the chaos, they lose track of each other. But not today.

“What regret are you burning?” Blaine asks.

He smiles and slowly closes the distance between him and Blaine, staring down into his boyfriend’s beautiful eyes. “Not asking you to marry me when I had the chance.”

Blaine’s eyes go wide, a hushed, “Sebastian–” before his breath gets taken away completely.

“Then I figured,” –he pulls the ring box from his jacket pocket, shrugging– “what better time than tonight?”

Somewhere deeper in the city a crowd starts shouting, counting down to a new year, their fourth year, the start of another in a long line yet to follow and he makes a mental note to take Blaine to other places where people celebrate this day differently.

He goes down on one knee, the cold biting through his pants.

Blaine’s eyes shine with tears.

“What do you say, Blaine Anderson? Will you–?”

“Yes,” Blaine blurts out, and clasps a hand over his mouth.

He slides the ring around Blaine’s finger, his boyfriend bouncing excitedly on his feet.

“Oh God, yes.” Blaine takes his face in hands once he stands up and pulls him down into a kiss, the clock striking twelve. “Yes,” he chants, over and over again, until the word brands itself onto his skin, until all he hears is its echo drowning out against their lips, until all he knows is Blaine, and his body, right there, with him.

Later, he tosses the piece of paper back over the railing, out into the dark where a stranger could find it and read it, never knowing that what he wrote down was the promise for the future, of a life together. 

 

 

**\- fin -**

 


End file.
